A Second Chance Taken
by Rotten Hollow
Summary: With his strength and patience wearing thin, a familiar visitor gives Dean Winchester a clear shot at free will. Originally set during Season Nine. Eventual AU.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. Its concept and characters belong to the magnificent Eric Kripke as well as the CW. If I did, Destiel would be very, very canon.**

 **Hello! A few cautionary notes before I begin- I am unsure if I should continue this. This is an idea that had been bouncing around in my head for a while now, so let me know if I should continue! My updates will be rather infrequent, but since summer vacation has begun they should happen more consistently, but be warned. I have no beta so all mistakes are indeed mine.**

* * *

Dean huffed a breath of warm air from his nose as his aching back collided with the ugly green and orange bedsheets, smelling like an odd concoction of mildew, sweat, and sex. The Winchester had long since prided himself for finding the best looking motels for the cheapest price, but after nearly crashing his beloved Impala onto a gnarled tree in one of the backroads of America- he knew them like the back of his hand by now, spending most of his life in a car and his home consisted of four wheels and an engine- he knew he had to find some place to sleep before he hurt himself or anyone else. Finding the nearest motel in the Middle of Nowhere, Oklahoma, he had scribbled his name down without checking to see if it even matched with the one on his credit card. Putting his baby in park and dragging his duffle down a hall of empty and foreboding doorways, he wrenched open the squealing door and plopped on the bed before checking for bedbugs or anything else hiding within the confines of the stained mattress.

The minute the young man dared to close his eyes for a split second, a screaming women would fill his mind, her piercing shrieks shattering his eardrums as the stench of decay roiled off of her. Tears seemed to hurtle down her flushed cheeks as she held the soiled and rotten corpse of her three month old daughter to his shocked face. The hunt had gone bad the minute he had stepped foot into that damned house. The old shack that he had assumed to be abandoned was the temporary home to a literal foaming-at-the-mouth, balls out insane, squatter. Well, she had lived there some years before, but that wasn't the point.

He knew something was off the minute he had began the hunt five days earlier. Reports of a woman in a tattered white dress- which he had assumed to be a ghost of sorts, a woman in white perhaps- had terrorized a group of teenagers when they were hanging around the property when they knew that they shouldn't have been doing so. Typical teenager stuff. After digging into the home's history at the local library, he soon became aware that a young woman by the name of Tina Romanoff had gone missing on the premises some twenty years before, when she was around eighteen or so. But when he had donned a suit and the alias of Special Agent Rufus Rosewood, the eyewitness accounts from the group of shell-shocked teens, that when they had glimpsed the woman, they had described the woman as someone in their early thirties. It had seemed odd at the time, but Dean didn't think much of it, due to the fact that they were all drunk off their asses and they had only caught a glimpse from the home. To be honest, he just wanted to get this done before the alleged ghost started dropping bodies.

He had wanted to check out the place that very night, but the dubbed 'Winchester Luck' had preemptively struck once again, striking him, very literally, in the form of a white Honda Civic going at about thirty miles an hour. Nearly being struck by a pickup seconds before, a rather frazzled Dean Winchester picked his way along the intersection. Abiding by the old rule, he made sure to look both ways before crossing to avoid another almost-accident.

He never even saw it coming.

The Hunter's body seemed to almost fold in half as his muscled frame slammed into the grill of the Civic. The car screeched to a halt, but not before rolling over Dean's shin in the process. He heard a distinct pop and then crunch, before the agony hit like a jagged slice to his ankle. He was only dimly aware of the dull, throbbing pain in his ribs. The driver was an middle-aged man in a ratted polo sporting a tight potbelly, smelling of cigarettes and sweaty disappointment. He grimaced as he drunk in the sight of the barely conscious young man beneath his wheels before lumbering back into his car, putting it onto reverse and driving away, but not without driving over Dean's already injured leg in the process. A stunned pedestrian, an old woman om purple overalls, hobbled over as fast as her walker would possibly allow her, and leaned over his prone form. She pulled out one of the most ancient phones known to man and shakily called 9-1-1. She leaned over Dean further and shook his shoulder, earning a pained groan in response. It was going to be a very long day.

* * *

Dean was very dimly aware of beeping and the flurry of activity happening around his semi-conscious body. He struggled to pry open his eyes that almost seemed to be caked shut with some sort of dark brown substance, which clung to his long eyelashes like a lifeline. His eyes refused to make out distinct shapes, as if the world around him was a massive blob of activity. He decided that sitting up would be the best move, but he quickly changed his mind after a shock of pain blossomed from his side. Two, perhaps three broken ribs seemed to be the suspect. He began testing his limbs for any possible breaks. Arms were fine, legs were- what the hell? All he could see was a large, white and shapeless blob wrapped around his right leg, preventing his ankle from moving. A cast. What had happened?

The memories hit him at approximately thirty miles per hour, quite similarly to the Civic that had hit him some time before. The Honda. He remembered now. Some douchebag had ran him over and booked it. Awesome.

A woman in a white coat with contrasting brown eyes took measured steps toward his body laying stock-still on the bed. Dean twisted his torso towards her, flashing a winning smile and ignoring the pain that lanced through his ribcage. Using his devilish charm, he gave her the best impression of a man that had not just been ran over by a vehicle driving at approximately thirty miles per hour, and nonchalantly asked, "What's up Doc? Do you know when I'm gonna get this cast off?"

The doctor gave him a look, clearly stating that she meant business, and was not in the mood to flirt with the injured man. Or, if one were to use profanity, she simply wasn't taking any bullshit from some ass who had just became roadkill. She glanced at her clipboard. "Well, Mr. Winchester, Rosewood, Ford, Caplain, Smith, Stark, and Van Halen, in about four months. But you shouldn't worry about that. What you should be worrying about are the charges that have just been filed against you, like Impersonating an Officer and such," She looked up from her clipboard, smiling coyly at the man's paling face. "But you shouldn't worry about that, either. I'm sure that you'll be feeling better in no time." Her tan features suddenly became businesslike. "Well, you received three fractured ribs from the collision as well as a broken tibia and fibula on your right leg, and a minor contusion on your forehead that needed twelve stitches. We wrapped up your ribs and placed a bandage on your forehead, so please don't scratch at them. Your ribs will be a bit sore up to the six week mark while they heal, so take it easy until then, okay slugger? A broken tibia can take up to four months to heal, but could possibly last another six months after we had reset the bone. Your broken fibula should heal in about six weeks."

Dean gaped, unable to take in the information. Up to ten months? What about the hunt? He grimaced. He couldn't possibly call Sam after Gadreel, so he had to finish the hunt on crutches. Awesome. He waited for the doctor to duck out of the room before planning his dashing and debonair escape. He did so by rolling gracelessly off of the hospital bed and sprawling like an octopus all over the floor. Thank god for private hospital rooms. Luckily for Dean, none of the doctors or nurses had cuffed him to the bedpost, meaning they clearly didn't expect him to make his daring and fabulous escape, which Dean, for better or for worse, was known for. Spotting a pair of crutches positioned lazily on the wall across the room, the Winchester began to army crawl towards them. Having to duck out of the view of passing doctors, it took the Hunter quite a few minutes to reach them. Grabbing his clothes on the immaculate white table next to him, he struggled into his ripped jeans, wriggling about on the floor in an attempt to pull his jeans over the thick cast. After one final attempt, he successfully pulled the pant leg over the bulky appendage. Hoisting his weakened frame over the crutches, he draped his aching torso over them. Trying to avoid eye contact with any other patients or employees stationed about in the hospital, he left the premises without a hitch.

Hotwiring a baby blue pickup was made a tad bit more difficult with injuries, so it took him a moment or so to gather himself before he drove off to the motel he had booked. Luckily, he had done so the day in advance. Dean ignored the searing pain in his calf. He wasn't out of the woods yet. In fact, he didn't know that he was holding his breath before he expelled a sigh of relief when he spotted the motel- Lay-Z Days Motel- just down the road. Squinting though the agony that shredded through his calf, he pulled into the dilapidated parking lot. Tucking the truck just behind a thicket of scraggly and untamed bushes that were just far enough away that it wouldn't be seen- unless of course you were standing a meter away from it- he limped his way to his room. Taking one last furtive glance behind him, he made sure the vehicle wasn't around any streetlamps when night came in an hour or two. It wasn't.

* * *

The rather zonked-out Hunter nearly collapsed as he forced open the door. Stumbling gracelessly into the surprisingly well-kept motel room, he scrabbled towards the door to the bathroom, clawing uselessly at the knob before the door finally opened with a click. Dean fell to his knees as he bent over the porcelain bowl, a thick jetstream of orange and yellow erupted from his throat. He really didn't want to taste that burger from Deb's diner again. He retched until nothing but reddish spittle would come out, completely spent as he fell against the bathtub. Hot tears spilled down his cheeks- not that he would ever tell anyone that little detail of the story- and vomited once again, all that was left in his system was a gob of gooey bile. His throat seemed to be filled with razors, and he couldn't even swallow, let alone think about moving. He wanted nothing more than for Sam to be there with him. He needed his little brother by his side. But Sammy didn't want to be his brother anymore because Sam hated him.

Because Sammy wanted to die and Dean couldn't just let that happen. It was Dean's job to keep little Sammy safe. His job. He longed again for the little twelve year old that thought the world of him. The one whose homework he helped with. The one who loved him.

As much as Dean hated to admit it, his last thoughts were of his baby brother as he drifted into oblivion.


End file.
